Sharing With Yourself
by Digital Artists
Summary: Aziraphale wakes up to find he's somewhere that he doesn't recognise and he isn't sure how he got there. And something strange seems to have happened to Crowley. Crowley x Aziraphale pairing
1. Chapter 1

MineGeorgi: Hey there. This is my first Good Omens fic that I began on a whim, really because I felt like describing the feeling in the first couple of paragraphs. That great, 'I've just woken up and really want to stay here' feeling. But anyway. I'm one half of this amazing writing duo called the DigitalArtists, and my cowriter, LookitDom should hopefully be joining in the writing of this story in later chapters. I hope you like it! Oh, and don't forget the sacred mantra:

Please Read and Review, Read and Review, Read and Review!

* * *

The world was warm, soft. It smelled faintly of lavender, and fresh linen. From somewhere the scent of cut grass drifted by. The world rustled as he shifted; giving him the impression he was surrounded by an abundance of leaves. It felt very much like being wrapped up in a duvet.

Aziraphale opened one eye lazily. The morning sunlight filtered through closed drapes to gently embrace the room with its glimmering radiance, the warmth dancing across Aziraphale's face as he blearily took in his surroundings.

The room exuded an air of irrepressible comfort. The high ceiling was bare, but hardly plain, its creamy colour setting the tone for the furniture: two deep, cushy armchairs that rested on either side of the bed – for surely it must be a bed he was lying in – a rich mahogany desk just visible at the end of the room, a wardrobe of matching wood resting but a few feet away, and the curtains just beginning to flutter in an early morning breeze that was creeping in through the partly opened window.

The open, airy nature of the room had a homely feel to Aziraphale, and was lulling him further towards the sleep he had just left.

He snuggled back under the duvet and tuned on his side, noticing in a vague sort of way that there was someone else sleeping in this bed too. The figure was turned away from him so all Aziraphale could make out was the dark mess of hair that lounged on the pillow, as if the hair believed itself to carry the personal traits of its owner. That thought struck Aziraphale as silly, so he giggled quietly.

Realising he had giggled caused him to blush, but also woke him up a bit. It finally crossed his mind that he wasn't quite sure where he was, or even how he got there.

Sitting up, he realised just how odd the situation was. He never slept. _Never_. It encouraged slothfulness, which was a sin, and besides it was more Crowley's thing anyway. And even if he did, he certainly wouldn't be sleeping next to someone else because such an act would have connotations with lust. So what on Earth was this human doing here?

A glance at the sleeping stranger told him it was male, and looked a bit like Crowley. Aziraphale shook his head. That was another silly thing to have thought. He looked nothing like Crowley.

He pondered the possible ways he could have ended up here. Maybe he'd found this man in the street, dying perhaps? Cold and hungry? In need of comfort in his final hours?

No. He looked well-fed, and something about him suggested to Aziraphale that he owned this place. So maybe he'd tricked Aziraphale into coming here? No, angels were not fools. No mortal could trick Aziraphale into doing something against his will, and definitely not when it involved ending up in bed with someone.

He leaned forward to inspect the man's face, and found he was disturbed by what he saw. It hadn't been a silly thought after all. In retrospect, he really did look like Crowley. A great deal. Almost indistinguishable, in fact. But most certainly human.

Aziraphale reached out a hand to rest against his cheek. The figure stirred, mumbled something incoherent as Aziraphale pulled away, and opened his eyes.

". . . mmm mshiffflefsh . . .?"

"Er," said Aziraphale. "Hello."

The Crowley look-alike smacked him lightly on the arm, which greatly confused the angel. "Go back to sleep 'Zira. We've got ages yet."

Aziraphale's eyes widened. He knew that voice! He'd heard it mock him, console him, and rage at him drunkenly long enough to know who it belonged to.

"C-Crowley?"

The other rolled onto his front and buried his face in the pillow, scrunching it up in his fists as he seemed to try and push himself further in.

"S'Anthony, you prat," Aziraphale heard from the pillow. "Now go back to sleep. And shut the window, would you?"

Aziraphale made no move to do any such thing. He merely stared.

'Anthony' turned back to face him and sighed in exasperation. "What have I done now? If it's about the dishwasher I swear I wasn't anywhere near it when it broke."

"Um, Crowley, I'm not sure what's going on or what you mean by doing this but I would like you to stop. Now, please."

He received an odd look from Crowley. A hand was waved in front of his face.

"You alright, Azira?"

"Look, I'm afraid I really don't get the joke." Aziraphale backed away and nearly fell off the end of the bed. He clasped the bed sheets in his hands and fidgeted with them worriedly. Crowley had played pranks on him before, but he'd never done _anything _like this. "Uh, please, Crowley. I am a bit bothered by the fact that you somehow put me to sleep and also dressed me in pyjamas, but I won't mind listening to you gloat about it over a glass of wine. So how about we go and have a drink, my dear?"

Crowley moved forward so that his nose was an inch away from Aziraphale's. He narrowed his eyes as the angel squirmed under his gaze. "You know," he began, "I told you that soup last night was a bad idea." He pulled away from Aziraphale, shaking his head. "C'mon then. I guess we better get it over with."

"Get what over with?" asked Aziraphale hopefully, brightening as he thought he saw a light appearing at the end of this long, dark and rather worrying tunnel.

"Meeting my family for lunch. Don't tell me you forgot about it again?"

The light disappeared and suddenly Aziraphale wasn't quite so sure of himself. This was Crowley, yes? Yes. But he was human. Which was wrong in every book Aziraphale owned. They were in a place Crowley seemed to live in. But it was not his flat. In fact, Aziraphale began to wonder if they were even in London. The lack of noise and car fumes in the air suggested they weren't.

He realised Crowley was beginning to unabashedly strip of his night clothes in front of him, and forced his gaze to remain in his lap, reminding himself that if Crowley was human he'd want privacy.

A hand lifted his chin up, forcing his eyes to fix on Crowley's.

"Seriously, are you ok?" came the question.

"No, I rather think not," was Aziraphale's weak reply.

Beyond Crowley he saw a door. A door that was slightly ajar. He ducked under Crowley's arm and made for it, wrenching it almost off the hinges in a panic to get out. He dashed through what could have been a living room and then a hallway and then a door and at last came out into the street.

Dear God, what was going on?


	2. Chapter 2

MineGeorgi: Hmm . . . this seems to be sounding different than to how I'd planned in my head. Does some of it feel rushed to you? Oh! And can someone tell me how to properly insert the footnote symbol on please? It won't transfer properly to look like it does in the Word document, so I had to make do with brackets. Oh, well. All will become clear soon, folks!

* * *

Aziraphale wandered through the streets in an almost drunken state. The signposts and street names he passed gave him no further inkling as to where he could be; indeed all he could figure out was that it was a rather quiet, pleasant place.

His physical senses, those that belonged to his body, told him that the air was clean, the pavements uncracked, the grass unlittered, and that his feet were beginning to hurt. His angelic senses, however, told him that all was right with the world. There were low levels of sin in this area, but much higher was the overall aura of contentment. It reminded him of Tadfield.

And then he realised what it was that really disconcerted him. This was a _good_ place. Even though Crowley was here.

He leant against a wall to steady himself. He couldn't deal with the world turning upside down on him all of a sudden like this.

Across the road he spotted a quaint little tea shop.

Deciding that there was still one thing left in the world he would trust to never let him down, he went in.

* * *

Anthony Crowley, Business and Financial Manager of Phale&Crowley Goods, finally stumbled into Madam Crup's Teashop at half past eleven, his shirt still only half done up and one shoe unlaced.

Aziraphale looked up from a table in the corner, teacup in hand, where he had been reading a newspaper to try and glean some information as to where he was.(1) The distraught expression Anthony had seen earlier now appeared again on Aziraphale's face as he hurried over.

He dropped into a chair opposite the angel, looking quite harassed, and rather worried. This, more than anything, unnerved Aziraphale.

"Look," said the person who looked like Crowley but couldn't possibly be Crowley even though every sense Aziraphale owned was telling him it _was_ Crowley, "is it something I've done?"

Aziraphale stared at the impostor for a while, then hung his head. He didn't now what to think. Not even tea could help here.

". . . how did you find me?" he mumbled to the tablecloth.

A small smile graced the other's features. Aziraphale finally realised what else had been bothering him since he'd walked through the door. Crowley wasn't wearing sunglasses, and the eyes that looked imploringly at him now were normal, but so abnormal to Aziraphale. His distress almost escaped his lips as a sob.

"Mrs Crup called me, love. You worried her, coming here in only your pyjamas. She said you downed five cups of tea straight after the other." The smile faded, and was replaced by a look of honest concern. "Love, are you alright?"

Aziraphale sat, frozen. The situation was just too surreal.

The impostor held out a hand.

"C'mon," he said. "Let's get you home."

* * *

1) He'd found out he was in Burlsbury, which didn't help because he had no idea where that was either.

* * *

Aziraphale found himself being pushed gently but firmly towards the embrace of an open wardrobe, back in the room he had woken up in. Anthony – as he'd insistently reminded Aziraphale was his name – left him with instructions to change into something nice for lunch, to be quick because 'they' would be here any minute, and a promise to talk with him about why he was upset as soon as they got a minute alone together.

Aziraphale couldn't say he cared much for the clothing he was faced with. None of it was tartan, or even a recognisably late nineteenth century fashion. He picked up the suit Anthony had first pulled out for him. It looked streamlined.

He made a few adjustments, and put it on. Somewhere downstairs a doorbell rang. A door was opened, and then closed. A few greetings rang through the house, and then the sound of Crowley ushering everyone into the living room.

Looking in the mirror, Aziraphale made a few more changes. Well, a few dozen, perhaps.

Then he went downstairs.

He approached the living room door cautiously and lifted a hand to knock, before realising it might be more appropriate to just enter. He did so.

Six faces turned in his direction and all the chatter died. Aziraphale wrung his hands nervously. From the corner of his eye he saw Crowley bury his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with some unknown emotion.

"Anthony," a young girl sitting on the floor broke the silence, "you know your boyfriend's an absolute poofter, right?"

Aziraphale opened his mouth to sharply reprimand the girl and explain to her that he and Crowley were _not_ involved in such a way, but a bark of laughter halted him.

"That's right." Anthony was doubled up laughter, his eyes shining with amusement. He turned to Aziraphale and gestured to his suit. "You must have been hiding that thing for weeks! And after I spent all that money trying to rehabilitate you for your tartan addiction!" He continued to chuckle and patted a spot on the sofa next to him. Aziraphale sat, feeling even more disjointed from reality.

Things made a little more sense now, but in a disturbing, end of the world kind of way.

Crowley had called him 'love' in the tea shop. He seemed to think they were in a relationship, and so did all these people around him. This wasn't . . . fair.

He wasn't sure where that last thought had come from, but suddenly it seemed oddly fitting. He was in a strange place surrounded by strange people and the only familiar person in all of it was a complete stranger.

"It's not fair," he found himself whisper, but the statement was lost amid the conversation that floated around him.

He kept quiet, and daren't meet anyone's gaze.

After about fifteen minutes, Crowley's hand grasped his own, and Aziraphale's eyes were met with a reassuring smile. It really was too much.

He cried out, a strangled, hurt sob of indignation at the Universe and pulled away as Crowley reached out for him.

"A-Azira . . .?"

He batted away Crowley's hands and pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve to dab at his eyes. He felt truly miserable.

Crowley was making apologies on his behalf now, asking the others to excuse his boyfriend's behaviour as he really wasn't feeling well. He stood, and pulled Aziraphale with him, out of the room.

In the hallway the world felt less dense and Aziraphale finally felt like he could breathe freely. Crowley was shaking him, asking if he really was ill, if he wanted a drink or anything like that.

Aziraphale held up a hand to silence him. He fixed Crowley with a look as close to a glare as he could muster.

"Crowley. What. Is. Going. On?" He enunciated each word carefully and kept his tone sharp, trying unsuccessfully to convey a sense of 'No more funny business'.

"I. Don't. Know." Crowley shot back.

"Why are you doing this, Crowley? Or has someone else done this to you? Why are you human? And why are you acting so strangely?"

"I wasn't aware I was. And for goodness' sake why do you insist on calling me by my last name. We've known each for so l-"

"Exactly!" exclaimed Aziraphale. "We've known each other a very long time indeed. Over six thousand years, and that's just since time was invented!"

Crowley's eyes went wide. ". . . Have you gone insane, Azira?"

"No, I most certainly have not, dear boy!"

"Well, you sound like you have."

Aziraphale huffed in irritation.

The two glowered at each other for several minutes. The angel was shocked to find that Crowley crumbled first.

"Look, you know I'll always cave in if there's something you want, but you only have to ask. You don't need to pull a stunt like this . . ." Crowley sighed, looking a bit dejected and Aziraphale immediately felt ashamed. He patted Crowley's shoulder in a vague gesture of comfort, not quite sure what else he could do.

"Listen," he said. "You're human now, so I don't expect you to understand all this. Quite how you became human is something of a mystery to me, but I'm sure we can get it fixed. I-"

"Please don't," Crowley muttered. "I've heard enough rubbish." He flashed a glare at Aziraphale. "You could have at least waited until my family were gone. They're putting me through enough hell as it is already!"

_He really . . . doesn't remember,_ Aziraphale realised. _He really is a stranger to me. Or rather,_ he would have laughed bitterly if Crowley weren't there; _I'm the stranger to him!_

A sudden sadness overwhelmed him and again the unfairness of it all struck him in the face. Crowley didn't remember being a demon. He didn't remember Aziraphale was an angel . . .

An idea occurred to him. It was a desperate, far-fetched and maybe even a foolish idea, but if it made Crowley remember then he didn't care.

He grabbed Crowley's arm to tow him up the stairs, but found said arm wrenched from his grip angrily.

"What now?"

"I need to . . . I need to show you something. But it's best if we're not disturbed."

Crowley looked at him suspiciously. It was obvious he didn't believe him, and that hurt Aziraphale even more.

The hurt must have shown on his face though, because Crowley sighed wearily and agreed to go up with him, but only for a moment otherwise his family would start to think they were being rude on purpose.

Aziraphale practically bounded up the stairs in his hurry, Crowley following.

Once in the bedroom Aziraphale cast around uncertainly, before closing the curtains and telling Crowley to sit on the bed.

He gave him a worried smile.

And unfolded his wings.


	3. Chapter 3

MineGeorgi: Dammit! I'm really sorry it took so long to churn this chapter out. I wouldn't have started the story if I'd known I'd fade straight back into writer's block mode (oddly enough, I began this story as a way of trying to combat the disease) because it always annoys me when I come across a good story that just stops after a few chapters with no explanation. To be fair I did begin writing this chapter almost instantly after I finished the last one, but for some reason I became totally stuck half way through and have only just now realised that it isn't such a lost cause.

So I'm gunna be continuing (yay!) but updates will probably still be irregular at best with lengthy intervals inbetween. Hope that doesn't put you off reading it! Basically, it's because I'm in my GCSE year so I'm now a lot busier (as is my co-writer, which is why she hasn't appeared yet and this is the only story currently being actively written on our account. The rest are being ignored until we find the will to live again ¬.¬;)

Anyways, hope this chapter is better than the last one (seriously, something about chapter 2 really bugs me) and apologies for its lateness and the fact it's a bit shorter than the others.

* * *

Anthony Crowley was sure he must be dreaming.

He must be, because how else could anyone explain the apparition that stood before him. Soft, downy feathers were drifting towards the carpet, suspended in the air as if caught in time. Any other time Anthony might have berated Azira for making a mess, but now, torn between wonder, shock, and even a certain undefined fear, it took a great effort to just regain control of his mouth.

"Azira, a-are you . . . are you dead?"

* * *

Crowley whistled as he drove through the streets of Soho. A brown paper package sat next to him on the passenger seat. So did a cup of coffee. Pulling up outside Aziraphale's bookshop, he was vaguely surprised to not see the angel dithering at the counter. Probably in one of the back rooms, he guessed, and grabbed the package as he left the car.

A little bell above the shop door jingled merrily as it opened, causing Crowley to wince. He was sure the angel had bought it just to annoy him. In fact, he was quite certain that lurking somewhere under all that tweed was the most subtle and _inventive_ sadistic bastard he had ever met. You just didn't notice thumbscrews when they were decorated with tartan.

He dropped the package on the counter and peered into the gloom.

"Aziraphale? You there?"

There was a clatter from the back of the shop and a muttered "Ouch." Curiosity got the better of him and Crowley headed in that direction.

"Aziraphale? Your books trying to eat you or something?"

He pushed open the door, some of the paint peeling off at his touch. Behind it, sprawled in a rather ungainly fashion on the floor, was Aziraphale.

The angel looked up at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated relief. He climbed to his feet clumsily. "I'm afraid I tripped," he said with a shade of embarrassment. "Goodness knows why all these books are lying about. Anthony, where are we exactly?"

Crowley felt the muscles in his chest constrict. He'd felt it as soon as he opened the door, as glaringly obvious as a heavy metal band in a library. Aziraphale was . . . all wrong. He wore a green woolly jumper, which in itself seemed normal enough, and he was holding a book in his hand, again a normal pose for him. His eyes were the same depthless azure as they had always been and- . . . except they weren't. If Crowley peered closer, he could see an altogether _human_ intelligence peering back.

And that was it. There were no other physical signs that Aziraphale was in any way changed. At all. It was if he'd just gone to sleep one night and woken up human.

"Anthony?"

Crowley stared at him, this human Aziraphale that stood wringing his hands in front of him with a pleading expression on his face. This Aziraphale that smelt of dust and tea and paper, but called him 'Anthony'.

He hadn't realised his mouth had been hanging open, but he closed it promptly when Aziraphale shook him by the shoulders.

"_Anthony._" He pulled back. "Are you alright?"

Crowley blinked. "I think I'm gunna throw up . . ." he murmured and stumbled through to the front of the shop. Clasping the edge of the counter to steady himself, he kept his back to Aziraphale. Didn't want to look at it. Didn't want it to be true.

A hand tense with worry rested on his shoulder for a moment, then was gone and replaced by a warm hug, startling Crowley with the sensation of arms gripping him firmly round his middle. For a brief second he felt reassured, stabilised. He laid a hand on Aziraphale's and squeezed as an offer of comfort, feeling the anxiety slowly draining from the too-human body behind him. Too human. Too _mortal_.

Damn, why did he have to realise all the depressing things in quick succession? Oh great, now he was crying, like the bloody sappy snake he was. And Aziraphale had turned him round, was stroking his cheek, whispering silly little things in an effort to calm him down, stop the tears.

_Mortal_. He'd never realised before just how disgusting the word sounded. How hard, how remorseless. How cold, and unrelenting.

"It's going to be okay," he said, more to himself than Aziraphale. "We'll get you back to normal. We will." He swallowed thickly and gently brushed away Aziraphale's hands. Then on impulse, he caught one of them, held it close to look at.

Beautiful, were Aziraphale's hands. They positively glowed with the life that filled them, the skin smooth save for his thumbs and index fingers. Must be from turning so many pages, thought Crowley with a small smile. The palm, creased and dimpled, was practically silken to his touch, tracing the lines to the centre, then outwards again until a vein caught his eye. He followed its path to the wrist, could almost see it throbbing just below the thin, fragile covering of skin. And below that lay the muscle which could be so easily torn, following the contours of bone which was so very easy to snap. Careful of the human. If you drop him, he might break.

"Ah-ha . . . Anthony? You're, ah, hurting my arm."

Crowley's focus broke, and he found himself again looking into the eyes of a human Aziraphale. He was having trouble accepting this. Didn't want to believe any of it.

"How did . . . how did this happen?" he croaked, barely able to string the right words together.

Aziraphale peered at him curiously, rubbing his wrist where Crowley had grabbed it. "You mean you don't know either? I just woke up in that back room over there. Awfully untidy place. And goodness knows why there's so much dust about. You'd think whoever owns this place would clean up every once in a while, wouldn't you?"

Now, we all know Crowley can be a little slow on the uptake sometimes, and he has just undergone a very distressing experience. So I'm sure we can all forgive him for reacting thusly:

". . . Wha'?"


End file.
